


Go To Sleep, Dude

by EasyTiga



Series: A Whole Lotta Fucking [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Sam, Bottoming from the Top, Established Relationship, Little Shit Dean Winchester, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Power Bottom Sam Winchester, Rough Sex, Sassy Sam Winchester, Sick Dean Winchester, Top Dean, Topping from the Bottom, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25998124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EasyTiga/pseuds/EasyTiga
Summary: Dean is sick with the flu because medicine is for sissies. He's being a royal pain in the ass, and not in the good way. He's grumpy, pissy, getting on Sam's nerves. So the only way to get him to rest, apparently, is to ride him until he shuts up and goes to sleep. Just how long will it take?
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: A Whole Lotta Fucking [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/352190
Comments: 12
Kudos: 124





	Go To Sleep, Dude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kim31](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kim31/gifts).



> So I needed a fic with grumpy, Sick Dean and Sam riding him until he passes out. That's where this came from. I needed it, so I wrote it. XD 
> 
> Kim: @Walker_Please on Twitter is in recovery at the moment, so I'm dedicating this to her. Get well soon, Kim! And let me know who you are on here, so I can gift the work to you ^^ 
> 
> I hope you and everyone else that reads it enjoys it! :D

“Ugh,” Dean groans as he balls up another tissue and tosses it towards the bin. It doesn’t hit the mark. He stares at the spot where it landed, seemingly trying to will it to carry itself into the bin so he can pretend that it didn’t miss in the first place, eyes cutting to sneak glances at Sam, who’s been watching him subtly the entire time. After an uncomfortably long time spent staring, Dean starts coughing up a storm, sputtering and thumping the sheets when he’s done, eyes trained on the ceiling like it’s the reason the world sucks, and not because the idiot thought it was a good idea to turn down medicine from the start, stating that the sniffles can’t take down a Winchester.

Well, now look where that got him. He’s bed-ridden. His head feels full to bursting, his nose has been switching from clogged up to running like a freaking waterfall, his joints ache and he has a high temperature.

Sam’s being careful not to give him the impression that he’s _handling_ Dean, but he is. Dean just has no idea. And that’s the way it’s going to remain. If Sam lets on that he’s _looking after_ Dean, the moron will be even more of a pain in his ass than he already is, on a good day.

“This sucks,” Dean complains, wriggling on the bed. “What did I do to deserve this, uh? It’s not like I save lives on the daily or nothin’.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam replies, acting aloof as he passes him a glass of water and some tablets, resisting the urge to help him sit up in the bed. He rolls his eyes like it’s a huge chore for him to even stand here with Dean’s medicine. “Some time today would be good, dude.”

“Don’t rush me,” Dean snaps, snatching the tablets and chucking them back. Seeing that he’s about to swallow them whole, Sam taps his cheek with impatience. “What?”

Wordlessly, Sam indicates the glass in his hand, a bored expression on his face.

“I don’t need that,” Dean says dismissively, and Sam taps him harder to show he’s not budging. “Trust me, Sammy, there are tougher pills to swallow than these bite-sized—”

Taking advantage of his open mouth, Sam tips the water in through the gap, hastily props the glass on the bedside table, forces Dean’s mouth shut and massages his throat. Dean glares heatedly at him the whole time, clearly too weak from the flu to do anything other than flail about like a puppet with its strings cut.

The swallow is audible when he finally does it, and Sam releases him without another word, picks the glass back up, handing it to him with a raised brow. Dean eyes him with venom but takes it, draining the rest of it in three long pulls that must be tough because he clutches his throat afterwards and his breathing is laboured.

“Y’know the first bit of advice that any doctor or whatever gives is to drink plenty of fluids,” Sam informs him, batting his hands away when he reaches out to probably shove him for the assault.

“They don’t specify that it has to be water,” Dean replies like a smartass. “Whisky counts as fluids, Sammy. And it’s a cure-all. Always gets the job done. Never had a Whiskey I regretted. Not one.”

“Right. So you didn’t regret that girl who threw up in your car?”

Dean looks offended that he reminded him of it. “I regret her getting her puke all over my baby, I don’t regret getting wasted enough that the smell didn’t bother me.”

“What? She didn’t puke on me, did she?”

“Cute,” Dean grumbles with a roll of his eyes. “You can go and do your geeky shit now, or whatever it is that you do when you’re not taking up all of the air in the room.”

“Bite me, Dean.”

“We talkin’ neck? Ass? Shoulder? Ballpark it for me.”

Sam doesn’t dignify that with a response, opting to grab his chair and bring it over to Dean’s bedside, slapping his hand away when he reaches for his phone.

“No,” he says firmly.

Dean scowls at him. “No, what? Give me my damn phone, Sam,” he warns, narrowing his eyes before he starts sneezing and holding his head. Sam fetches a couple of tissues, opens one of his books while he passes one over to Dean, not taking his hand back until Dean’s finished blowing his nose and wiping his face. Sam chances a glance at him and grimaces at the sight, pulling a couple of wipes from inside the drawer to his left. “You gonna wipe my ass, too, dude?” Dean questions, eyes looking heavy and sunken.

Ignoring the comment, Sam drops the wipe on his lap, hiding a small smile when he hears Dean making grumbly noises as he cleans himself up.

Anticipating Dean’s next move, Sam leans to the left to avoid getting hit by the soiled tissues. Dean scoffs and flops down on the bed, muttering under his breath about pain in the ass little brothers not respecting their elders.

“Do you have to read so freakin’ loud, man?”

“I wasn’t aware you could read minds, Dean. If you did, you’d shut up and go to sleep.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, you’re the mind-reader, apparently. You tell me,” Sam challenges, flicking to the next page.

“Screw you.”

“Yeah, okay, Dean. Let’s see you do anything like that when you can barely sit up, old man.”

Without needing to look up, Sam senses Dean gearing up to try something stupid like rising to his full height to prove a point, so Sam kicks his legs up casually, putting as little weight on them as possible. Dean protests the barrier, wriggling and pushing weakly at them.

“Get off’a me, Sasquatch. I need to take a leak.”

“No, you don’t,” Sam states calmly, knowing Dean used the bathroom less than three hours ago, so he’s good. What he needs is some damn sleep. Stubborn fool.

“What are you, my live-in nurse with benefits? Fuck off.”

“Nope.” Sam arches forward and presses his palm flat to Dean’s forehead. “When I can’t fry an egg on your forehead, you can get out of this bed.”

“When I can get out of this bed, your ass is gettin’ a poundin’. And not in the way we both want,” Dean grouses, glaring holes between Sam’s eyes. “You’re really pushin’ it, little brother.”

“Mhm.” Sam yawns, hoping it will trigger one from Dean. It does. He rubs his eyes, laying his head back, relaxing into the pillow. Then he snaps his eyes open, aims an even hotter glare at him and snatches the book out of Sam’s grip, tossing it clean across the room at the wall. “Was that necessary?”

“ _Was that necessary,”_ Dean mocks, scowling. “Go pick it up then, bookworm.”

Sam shakes his head with a sigh, reaching into the drawer for the spare copy he brought with him, relocating the page he was on, not even bothering to point out the obvious to his brother.

“Nice try,” he says after minutes of Dean sulking.

“I can’t just lie here in bed, Sam. I’ve taken m’ pills so I’m gonna go to a bar, get dunk and—”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No… You’re not,” Sam repeats, feigning annoyance when he’s actually deeply concerned that Dean will force himself to a bar out of spite. “Just sleep it off. You’ll be fine if you actually let your body rest. Stop being difficult.”

“You know what? I’ve had enough of you trying to tell me what to do, Sammy,” Dean husks, voice wrecked from his illness. The anger seems to have amped up his strength, because Sam’s legs find themselves on the floor, body sinking awkwardly in his chair from the angle. “’m goin’ to the damn bar and your giant ass can’t stop me.”

Having zero intentions of allowing that to happen, Sam drops his book, throws his leg over Dean’s waist and plants his hands on his shoulders.

“Stop being a stubborn ass,” he says, keeping him steady, moving with Dean’s vigorous wriggling. “The sooner you get some rest, the sooner you’ll feel better, the sooner you can go to a bar.”

“Or, you can get the fuck off’a me, and I can go to a bar anyway where the people there respect me.”

“Pfft.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’,” Sam lies, arching an eyebrow when he feels a hard pressure against his ass. “Dude, really?”

“What? You try havin’ 200 pounds of smoking hot on your lap and not get hard,” Dean snaps, finally giving up the fight. “I fuckin’ hate this shit.”

“I know,” Sam agrees, eyes softening. “Wanna fuck me, then?”

Dean switches from pissy to extremely interested in the space of a nanosecond. “Don’t mind if I do, Sammy.”

“Good. Lay back, shut up and enjoy the ride,” Sam instructs, miffed that he can’t kiss him, too.

“Oh, baby, if you wanna do all the work, I’m not gonna complain.”

That’s what he was hoping for.

“Great,” Sam remarks, quickly stepping off Dean to get rid of his bottom half, foregoing foreplay since Dean needed to sleep yesterday, so he just fetches the lube, pulls Dean’s boxers off, slicks up his hole and sits on his cock until he touches base. “I’m surprised you can even get it up.”

“’m never too sick for sex. Especially not for your ass, sweetheart.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam hums, then squeezes _hard_ around him. “What did I say about talking?”

“How else will I tell you how annoying you are?”

Sam bites back a fond smile, rising up to the top, sea-sawing slowly over Dean’s crown, squeezing on the downstroke to have his toes curling into the sheets.

“Fuck… That feels amazin’….”

“I know,” he replies, voice far away because even when he’s sick as all Hell, Dean still looks breathtaking. Regardless of how much exposure he’s had to his brother, he never fails to steal away his focus, to the point where he struggles to connect the proceeding lines of thought. If he drops the ball even for a single moment, he’ll fall back into the role of slave to Dean’s features, words stollen from within, brain narrowed down to _Dean_ and _perfect_ without any prompting from him. “If you be quiet, you’ll enjoy it more, dumbass.”

“ _You’re_ a dumbass,” Dean replies lamely, eyes sliding shut in pleasure, mouth parted on puffs of breath as Sam rides him harder.

If he responds, Dean will only continue to either parrot what he says back at him or get stuck thinking of a smartass comeback, and the point of this is to get him to shut his brain off, so it’s better if he says nothing. Instead, Sam takes Dean to the root, rolls his hips, swivels, backs up until Dean’s crown is just barely caught on his rim, taking a moment to relish the stuttered stream of curses, plump bottom lip caught between Dean’s teeth, eyes tensing and untensing. Sam reaches behind himself, lowers marginally as he pushes a thumb in alongside Dean’s cock, rubbing back over the sensitive head as he takes inch by inch, stopping halfway and pulling off entirely, catching Dean between his cheeks before he can slap against his own stomach.

“Oh, my god…”

Sam concentrates, trapping Dean between his cheeks, using his hands to push them together, arching his back so Dean’s cockhead strokes over the small. It makes goosebumps break out on his skin, pleasant tingles running along his spine, raising the hairs on the nape of his neck. He widens his legs, bracketing Dean more securely, purposefully backing his ass up as slowly as humanly possible. It’s probably some kind of sweet torture for him, handsome face twitching from time to time as the lube dries and the drag becomes that bit more on the side of a little too much.

Beneath him, Dean’s hips wriggle, legs kicking out and curling in, hands grasping for purchase on Sam’s hips but too weak to commit to a firm enough grip, eventually flopping by his sides. Dean’s breathing is mixed with sharp hisses and bitten off whines, which means the bastard is holding onto his orgasm for dear life.

Sam casts him a disapproving look, guides his ass back up until the slit of Dean’s cock kisses his hole, then angles himself to accept the full length back inside him, swallowing down a pleasant moan at the pressure filling him out.

He lightly lays his hands over Dean’s warm chest then, careful not to apply too much pressure as he initiates a rigorous rise and fall, ass smacking down on Dean’s groin with a resounding _crack,_ Dean’s whole body seizing, mouth hanging open shamelessly on a perpetual groan, curses thrown left and right as his head thrashes from side to side, hand coming up to slap over his mouth while the other reaches out to grab Sam’s hard, leaking cock.

Without slowing down, Sam latches onto his hand, squeezing the flesh as he squeezes around Dean, transmitting through his grip that his brother can hold onto him if he needs to, and that he doesn’t stand a chance of holding back when Sam’s riding him as hard and fast as he is.

“Oh, you son of a bitch!” Dean snaps, willingly squeezing back as he bites down on his thumb knuckle, body convulsing as Sam continues to _smack, smack, smack, crack—down_ on him. Sam knows that he can’t last much longer. Just a couple of extra pushes.

“So stubborn,” Sam scolds him, sitting pretty while he languidly circles his hips, rises up, squeezes, drops back down. He leans forward, arching his back so that his ass holds Dean at an angle inside his body, making sure to contract with each bit of distance he puts between them, latching onto Dean’s neck, kissing, licking, sucking on the skin, worrying it until it’s bruised and marked, like it should be. “Come on, Dean. Come inside me. I want you to.”

“No fair.”

“Life isn’t fair. Please, Dean. I wanna read my book knowing that there’s a part of you inside me,” Sam husks by his ear, contracting harder. “You know you want to.”

“I do want to,” Dean says weakly. “I want to so fuckin’ bad, Sammy, you got no idea.”

“So give in, dude,” Sam encourages, curling his hands underneath Dean’s neck, holds him gently, gyrates his hips, pushes back. “C’mon, Dean. Do it!”

“Gah—all right, all right!” Dean snaps, and Sam offers him his shoulder to bite down on as he comes with a hoarse cry into his channel. Sam rapidly flexes around him while he releases stream after stream, nails scraping Dean’s sensitive scalp as his legs spasm. “Cheater.”

“I didn’t cheat. You’re just a sore loser,” Sam replies, then kisses Dean’s sweaty temple. “Now, are you gonna go to sleep?”

“What? No,” Dean responds like it’s the most obvious thing in the universe. A hand curls around his cock then. “You didn’t come?”

“Yes, I did. Christ, you’re sicker than I thought,” Sam makes a show of guiding Dean’s hand to the wet patch on his stomach.

“Oh, right. Still got it.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam climbs off him. “Time for soup.”

“Don’t put your pants back on.”

“Well, now I’m going to.”

“Come on, I’m sick,” Dean whines, and dammit Sam throws his jeans back on the floor. “You love me.”

“Idiot,” Sam says instead of admitting to it. “I’ll even keep them off when I’ve made your soup if you promise not to be an ass about eating it.”

“What? Your ass? I can eat your sweet hole all day, baby boy”

“No, not my ass. The soup,” Sam clarifies, rolling his eyes in fond exasperation. Wow, he does that a lot. “Let me get a rag.”

“Take your time. I’ll admire the view.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be dying?”

“Dying to get back in that ass.”

“Hopeless,” Sam mutters, bending over on purpose after dropping the rag, equally as purposefully. Dean groans low in his throat. “And so predictable.”

“Shut up.” From the bed, Sam assumes, Dean tosses a pillow, which he spins on his heel in time to catch.

“Real mature, Dean.”

“Screw you.”

“Just did,” Sam shoots back, raising an eyebrow. As expected, Dean looks mildly impressed with the boldness, waggling his ‘brows suggestively. “Yeah, there’s no way you’re already pitching another tent.”

“You wound me with your lack of faith in me, Sammy,” Dean remarks dryly, however from one glance down it’s clear that he’s still recovering. To be fair, he is sick. “ _This…_ does not count.”

“Right.”

While Dean mopes, Sam cleans him up, being as gentle as he can. To a degree, he can understand his brothers’ frustration, since they’re often too busy to leave themselves with enough time to actually have some good sex. It’s normally jerking each other off, or quick exchanges of blowjobs, or, on rare occasions, Dean three-fingers deep in Sam’s ass as he deep-throats him into a heavy, lengthy orgasm that Dean swallows down like he’s dying for it. Now that Dean’s out of commission, they have a little more time to themselves than usual, so Sam gets why Dean’s chomping at the bit to get in his ass as much as possible before they have to get back to it.

That’s why Sam took extra time in the bathroom, just in case.

When Dean’s all nice and cleaned up, Sam cheekily kisses his cock, which elicits a low warning noise. Sam ignores it, chuckling softly under his breath as he strides over to the kitchen area to prepare Dean’s soup, checking over his shoulder between intermissions to see how he’s doing.

The idiot is glaring at his dick, eyes turning soft and then smug, lips curling up into a smile, to a cocky grin as his cock chubs up and lengthens out. If he starts talking to it or praising it, Sam’s dumping his soup all over him. He swears.

“Sammy,” Dean calls, voice thick with arousal. “I’m ready for the next round, sweetheart.”

“No, you’re having your soup, and then you’re gonna go to sleep like all the other naughty boys who want their chance at that fire truck for Christmas.”

Dean scowls at him. “That sounds creepy.”

Sam agrees, but isn’t letting on that he’s right.

“Whatever. You’re having your soup and that’s final.”

“Promise to ride me once I’m done and you’ve got a deal,” Dean bargains, running his tongue over his bottom lip. Now who’s the one cheating? “C’mon, Sammy, you know it’s a good deal.”

“Fine,” Sam relents, taking his seat by the side of the bed again and handing Dean his soup, who stares at it like it’s a pool of waste. “I’ve worked in a couple of bars, I lived alone or, y’know, for four years, I made my own dinners while you were away—do you really have no confidence in my ability to make freakin’ soup, Dean?”

“It never _was_ your speciality,” Dean says, still not taking the bowl. “Burned toast was more your speed.”

“Keep that up, and I’ll pour it down your throat.”

“You wouldn’t _dare_.”

Sam gives him a look that says he should really consider whether or not that’s true.

“O-kay… Just, calm down, all right? See? I’m taking… the bowl,” Dean placates, actually accepting Sam’s help to sit up. Shit, he must be in a lot of pain. “My hands are a little shaky.”

“Yet, you’re still hard,” Sam reminds him, then curls a hand around his cock. “Each mouthful gets you either a couple of strokes, my mouth, a ball wash and when you’re down to the last bit, I’ll sit right on it. Sound good?”

Dean takes a second to control his breathing. “Sounds wonderful. Get on with it, then.”

“So long as you do.”

Sam watches Dean closely, waiting for his throat to bob before squirting some lube into his hand and running a couple of passes up and down Dean’s cock, who grits his teeth before taking another mouthful. They keep it up. At one point, Sam’s curious to see what will happen if he does nothing after Dean swallows, keeping down a laugh when Dean stops eating entirely, nods his head towards his dick and raises a ‘brow as if to say _well?_ Sam gave him a couple of longer, deeper sucks that had Dean’s ass actually lifting off the bed, by way of apologising for making him wait.

Coming up to the last few spoonfuls, Sam’s got Dean’s cock bumping at his throat, and his jaw is screaming at him because he’s stretching himself wide enough to suck Dean’s balls into his mouth, one hand acting as a platform for them to rest on as he pushes them in alongside the thick mass. Dean almost drops the bowl, cursing under his breath, legs eeking out, bending at the knees more than usual.

“Holy fucking shit, Sam!” Dean almost yells, bowl clattering on the side table. “Dude—don’t hurt yourself—on my account.”

Sam slowly lets Dean’s balls slip from his mouth, then draws his lips back at a snails-pace, tightening them to the point of burning until the tip hangs off his bottom lip, connected by a string of pre-come.

“Did you like it?”

“Did I like it? _What?_ ” Dean questions, incredulous. “Of course I did.”

“Then it’s worth the ache,” Sam says with conviction, turns so his back is facing Dean. His brother _loves_ reverse-cowboy. “Now for your reward.”

“You’re killin’ me here,” Dean half-complains, half-thanks, and Sam reaches a hand back for Dean to grab onto as he lowers himself onto his throbbing cock, knees planted on both sides, shirt riding up his back. He considers taking it off, but he’s not the one running a temperature and he needs to be able to shuck into his clothes quick enough to keep down suspicion from the other inhabitants of this crappy motel. “If I wasn’t—”

“Well, you are. So just relax and enjoy it. I know what I’m doing,” Sam cuts him off, rolling his hips.

“I know you do. And I am enjoying it. Very much so. Very, _very_ much so. I love watching your perfect ass bouncing on my cock.”

The heat that spreads through him is almost sickening. With the extra gruffness in Dean’s tone from being sick, Sam’s having a hard time not melting into a man-sized pool every time he opens his gorgeous mouth and talks.

Instead of replying, Sam clenches as hard as he can on the upstroke, satisfied with Dean’s deep grunt. Each time he drops down, Dean squeezes his hand, a breath punched out of his throat at each point of contact until Sam hears him groaning deeply, suppressing as much as he can.

Sam rises all the way off, lets Dean’s cock throb against his hole, then lowers back down, glad that his brother can’t see how happy Sam is that he’s enjoying himself. There isn’t time for a _moment_ , he just needs to wear Dean out. With Dean buried to the root, Sam wriggles his ass around, as if he’s trying to get comfortable on a seat. It drives Dean crazy because his already sensitive cock brushes along Sam’s anal walls, the clutch practically stealing his ability to speak or do anything other than choke down a squeak.

As soon as Dean whines and thumps the bed, Sam eases back off, slowing down right at the final hurdle, listening out for the _pop_ as Dean’s released, knowing his ass must be gaping because Dean’s breath hitches and he sounds like he’s in physical pain just watching Sam’s hole spread wide and waiting to be filled again.

So Sam brings the hand that isn’t holding Dean’s own down and underneath, connecting his thumb and forefinger around Dean’s balls, then guides the tip back to his eager entrance. Sam shallowly bounces on just the crown, purposefully clenching his whole ass, keeping his grip on Dean light and steady, letting the flesh of his cheeks graze Dean’s raised balls before pulling off completely.

Dean sounds pissed when he says, “If I wasn’t practically an invalid, I’d be fucking up into you so damn hard you’d feel it in your throat.”

“Well, currently, you are practically one, so shut up,” Sam retorts with a devious swivel that kills Dean’s next remark. “Think of it as motivation to get better.”

“Yeah, ‘cause then I can fuck you stupid,” Dean snaps, voice shot to shit. “Fuckin’ ass.”

“But you love my ass,” Sam replies snarkily, dipping while tucking his ass in, taking Dean’s fist pounding the sheets as a great sign that he’s in some kind of beautiful agony right now.

“It’s—the only—reason—I’m still—here!”

“You keep tellin’ yourself that,” Sam says, tsking. He releases Dean’s hand and his balls, bending his body back until he’s flush with Dean’s front.

“You sexy fucker,” Dean admonishes, breath ghosting over Sam’s ear. “I hate you so fuckin’ much.”

“Impossible,” Sam replies dismissively, trailing a hand slowly down his body, letting Dean watch every inch of the journey until he’s rubbing over his stomach. “Your friend doesn’t hate me at all.”

“He doesn’t think with his—head—”

Sam rolls his eyes, squeezing, using his core to prolong the back and forth. “Somethin’ you both have in common.”

“Bite me,” Dean grouses, and Sam would if the extra twist in his position wouldn’t be just a little too much for him to bear.

“Yeah, okay. I’ve dragged this out long enough,” Sam declares, pitching back up, getting his feet planted on the sheets, hands on his knees to act as a brace for him to start bouncing up and down as hard and fast as he can, disregarding the strain in his thighs, the shake—he’ll have time to recover when Dean falls asleep.

His cock swings with the motion, throbbing, ready to burst. Sam wants to wait until Dean pulls the sheets into his grip and his toes curl. That’s when he knows it’s time to sit his ass down and accept everything his brother has to give him.

It happens a couple of minutes later, Dean, once again, holding fast to the rest of his control, unleashing an almighty curse that tapers off into a grunt as he empties his load into Sam’s ass, triggering Sam’s own orgasm, hole flexing without preamble, heat exploding through his groin, heavy ropes of cum shooting to the end of the bed. He can’t help but collapse forward, Dean’s cockhead resting just between the spread of his cheeks, the stickiness keeping them connected.

A minute or so later, Sam gets his breathing under control, a sour taste forming in his mouth as soon as he realises that Dean _still_ isn’t asleep.

He sighs forlornly, crawling down the bed and away from Dean, avoiding the puddles of his own cum. “You’re an idiot,” he says tightly, leaving a grinning, laughing Dean on his own while he gets another rag, debating if he should shower first or not.

“’m not tired, dude,” Dean replies, sounding every bit as tired as he claims not to be, and, to his own horror, coughs, sneezes, coughs again, sneezes twice more and whacks his skull on the headboard.

A very small part of him feels as though Dean deserved that. And he must agree, because he doesn’t comment on it.

“Bullshit.” Sam cleans him up, again, acting all huffy when really he’s starting to suspect that Dean not being able to fall asleep is a byproduct of his illness, and in their line of work, that could mean a quick death, if he’s lucky. “You look like shit, Dean.”

“Wow, you really know how to make a guy feel special, Sam.”

“This isn’t funny, all right? You need to rest, not turn everything into a joke.”

“Look, I’m not dyin’, dude. Stop worryin’ so much.”

Sam levels him with a stare. “Then why won’t you sleep?”

“Maybe I’m hopin’ for round three.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sam gripes, hating himself for giving Dean’s dick another kiss before pulling away. It’s because he can’t kiss Dean, he tells himself. “I can’t wait around for six hours for you to get it up again.”

“Oh, you are _so_ gonna fuckin’ get it, Sammy.” There’s a steely fire in Dean’s eyes that says he has every intention of making good on that. Sam clears his throat around a swallow. “Just you wait, baby.”

“I can hardly contain myself,” Sam replies flatly, rolling his eyes. “If you go to sleep, and, y’know, _rest,_ you’ll be able to do whatever it is you’re planning to do.”

“It’s not gonna take six hours,” Dean deflects, looking dejected.

Sam bites the inside of his cheek, takes his seat by the bed again and palms Dean’s face. “I was messin’ with you.”

“I’m not _that_ old.”

“I know you’re not.”

“I can still go all night, if I want to.”

“Of course you can.”

“All I need is a few minutes and I’m good to go. Easy as pie.”

“That’s right,” Sam replies, nodding.

“Three? Four? Five? Six? _Seven_ times in one night. Piece of cake for a guy like me.”

“Yeah, Dean. I know that.”

“You do know that,” Dean says, leering. Another coughing spree breaks out, his nose running like a faucet. Quickly, Sam fetches the tissues and a wipe to clean him up once the coughing dies down. “Okay, that’s enough of that.”

A grimace takes over Sam’s face as Dean snatches the tissues away from him, blowing his nose once again, soiling tissue number-Sam’s-lost-count before balling it up and tossing it. It hits the bin this time. Dean lights up, tongue between his teeth as he turns to Sam with a _did you see that?_ look on his handsome face.

“Very good, Dean,” Sam placates, using Dean’s momentary self-appreciation to clean both their hands. “It was _one_ shot that went in, not ten in a row—no, that’s not a challenge.”

Dean narrows his eyes in suspicion, opens his mouth to speak, apparently thinks better of it, and crosses his arms over his chest. “If I didn’t feel like I went ten rounds with angels, demons and every other fugly fucker in between, I could make ten shots with my eyes closed.”

“Sure.”

“I could!”

“I’m not disagreeing with you, dude. I just want you to go to sleep.”

“And I want another ten inches on my dick, but we can’t all have what we—”

“If you had another ten inches, you would have the bluest balls going,” Sam interrupts, wrinkling his nose at the thought of taking an extra ten in his ass. Jesus. Almost nine is enough, thank you very much. “Why would you even—”

“It’s an expression.”

“No, it isn’t.” While Dean works on his lame retort, Sam starts walking his hand over to Dean’s crotch, which immediately starts taking an interest. He leaves his hand resting over it, applying very little pressure as he sweeps a thumb over Dean’s crown.

“And here I was thinking that you wanted me to go to sleep.”

“I do.”

“Well, if you keep that up…” Dean trails off, eyes full of heat and promises he can’t yet cash in on.

“I know,” Sam replies noncommittally, waiting for Dean to get hard enough for him to sit on, again. His ass isn’t sore because he prepped well in the bathroom, but he’s pretty sensitive, so he hopes that his brother crashes before long.

“Ride ‘em, cowboy.”

“Shut up.”

“It was funny.”

“It was not.”

“I’m hilarious.”

“You _think_ you are,” Sam replies, getting into position and lowering onto him. “There’s a difference.”

“Difference, smithrence. Shut up and take my dick.”

“I am.” He rolls, flexes, rolls again. “Pretty well, I might add.”

“Oh? Conceited, are we, little brother?” Dean smirks. Well, half smirks. His eyes are half-lidded, his breathing is starting to even out and he’s melting into the pillow, so that’s a good sign. Still, though, that’s not an excuse for his shit memory, which is why Sam smacks his chest and twists his hips. “Oh—right. Not when I’m balls-deep in your ass. I remember.”

“Good,” Sam snips, putting heat into his eyes even though Dean’s barely able to focus on him right now. He starts up a steady pace, not really committing to going fast or hard, content to ride the waves, as it were, using his core muscles to keep himself from touching base, flexing intermittently, placing one hand on Dean’s stomach to feel it contracting. He focuses on that point long enough that he doesn’t realise that Dean’s passed out, slack-jawed, lightly snoring, arms relaxed by his sides. “Finally. Moron.”

Sam eases off, glad that he’s not committed to coming again, anyway. He tip-toes off to fetch a rag, cleaning Dean up for the third time that night, finally ducking into the bathroom to give himself a rinse.

Stepping out and finding Dean still sleeping makes his heart clench, and he dries himself off as quick as he can, debating on whether or not he wants to continue reading. Sam opts against it, slides into bed next to his brother after placing a cold rag over his forehead, gently guiding him up enough to rest his head on Sam’s chest.

“Feel better, Dean,” Sam whispers, then kisses his damp cheek sweetly, playing with the hairs on his neck, initiating a soft sweeping motion until he finds himself drifting off alongside him.

_===_

_One week later…_

Sam gasps as he’s bent over the table, Dean’s free hand working his jeans and briefs down past his ass, a couple of slick fingers testing the give of his hole. This is why he’s always prepared.

“Nothin’ gets past you, huh, Sam?” Dean almost growls, belt clinking. The shuffle of Dean’s clothes registers in Sam’s ears, along with the small thump when they drop to the ground around his shoes, Dean’s thick, angry cock nudging at his hole. “Remember what I promised?”

“To grow a few extra inches? Yeah. Clearly, it still needs some work,” Sam grits, feigning annoyance when he’s far more turned on than he has the capacity to compartmentalise. “Get on with it, then!”

“That attitude of yours is about to go right out the window, sweetheart,” Dean intones, fucking into the hilt without warning. Sam cries out, fingers clawing at the table. Shit. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten how much of a little bitch you were last week.”

“Oh, no. I thought fossils forgot after five minutes.”

Dean sniggers. “I think it’s time for a pop quiz,” he starts, secures the collar of Sam’s jacket in a tight grip and wrenches him back on his cock. “Let’s start with an easy one… Hmm… How do we test for demonic possession?”

“What? Holy water, obviously.”

“Correct,” Dean replies, a smile in his voice, then he pounds Sam hard and fast, his hips digging into the table, cock jumping, grazing the wood, making his legs shake. “How do you kill Bloody Mary?”

Sam grist his teeth, clenches and backs up in defiance. “Show her—her face.”

“That’s right.” Suddenly, Dean’s hands are on his hips, digging into him hard enough to bruise, cock slamming into him at break-neck speed, throaty grunts coming from behind him as Dean keeps up the brutal pace, Sam’s hands struggling to stay still on the table. When he stops again, Sam sucks in much-needed air, spots in his vision as his eyes open back up. “What else? Oh, yeah. How much wood—would a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck—could chuck wood?”

Seriously? He wants him to answer that? Clever. Maybe he should give him more credit.

As Sam starts answering, Dean starts up a one, two three slow-grind that ends on a sharp snap that rocks his frame. “He would—chuck—as much—as—fuck—”

“Ehhh. Wrong,” Dean says with a fake sneer, then fucks faster, slows down, ducks a hand underneath Sam’s clothes to rub along his sweaty back. “How do you weaken vamps?”

Before Sam can even string together an answer, Dean curls his fingers underneath the table, using it as leverage to thrust hard and deep, probably pitching onto his toes to make Sam feel it that much more, the bastard.

“Dead—man’s blood!” Sam wails, head thudding on the table, breathing ragged. “You’ve—made your point.”

“No, I don’t think that I have because you’re still, y’know, talking—or at least, makin’ sense,” Dean replies, swallowing in between, most likely because he’s exerting far more energy than he should on this. “What did I call that gross thing that made a home in your ear?”

Oh, shit. He doesn’t remember. And Dean slowing down the pace so he experiences _ever fucking drag_ isn’t helping matters at all. What would Dean call something like that? Come on, he knows his brother. He knows him really well. It’s Dean, so it’s a band name. Classic rock… Something off the cuff that sounds passable?…

Shit. If he doesn’t stop that, he doesn’t have a chance.

“Times up. Next question. What’s the exorcism?”

Sam glares at the wood beneath him. He expects him to remember _that…_ _now?_

 _“_ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—_ uh, fuck!”

“Is that all you can remember?”

“Bite me,” Sam counters lamely, giving up on remembering the next line. “You got what you wanted—”

“Nearly,” Dean corrects, snags Sam’s hair in a tight grip with one hand, curls around his waist with the other and drives into him over and over and over again until Sam’s leaking onto the floor, he can barely breathe, there’s so much pressure, his cock is throbbing between his legs, his throat is tight and scratchy from screaming and he _never_ wants it to end. “What’s your name?!”

“W-What?”

Dean fucks in several more times, pulls his head back, buries himself to the hilt, grinds into him until Sam shoots hot and wet on the ground, then comes with a low grunt of satisfaction as Sam clenches around him, milking every last drop.

“There. Fucked you stupid,” Dean says, leaning over Sam’s spent body. “I keep my promises.”

“My name is Sam.”

“Dude, shut up.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> You have a friend of mine to thank for Dean's revenge at the end there. Originally, it was going to end after Dean falls asleep and Sam curls up with him, but she was like "DEAN SAID IT, SO NOW HE HAS TO DO IT."
> 
> So, you're welcome! XD


End file.
